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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29184810">Call Me Through the Spirit Phone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/teastainsonmysoul/pseuds/teastainsonmysoul'>teastainsonmysoul</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Lifetime Achievement Award - Lemon Demon (Song)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Many references to lemon demon throughout, Necromancy, Possible gore later, band au, its based on that song, lifetime achievement award</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:41:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,369</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29184810</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/teastainsonmysoul/pseuds/teastainsonmysoul</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Tyrannus Basilton “Baz” Grimm Pitch, Vocalist and Lead Guitarist Dies at Age 25</p><p>His life was cut tragically short, but he continues to capture the attention of an adoring audience through his music. A star as bright as him can’t be extinguished.’</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I made a band au guys!!!<br/>It’s angsty as fuck what a surprise.<br/>Anyway this is a bit of an expansion on that one text post I made forever ago.<br/>Yes, I still have been blasting spirit phone on loop 24/7. Yes, I’m not in the fandom anymore. No, I don’t know if I’ll finish this one either. Just shut up and enjoy the ride okay.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>It’s been three days since I last saw Baz. His pale body laying in a hospital bed, hooked up to ten different machines. All beeping, flashing, monitoring, <em> overwhelming </em>. The doctors and nurses that stood over him, blocking any trace of harsh fluorescence from above. Even from behind a pane of foggy glass I couldn’t be there for more than a few minutes.</p><p>    I didn’t even go back to our apartment that night. I thought about wandering around the city, but I could only bring myself to pacing around the parking garage. I stared at the mangled remains of Baz’s car in its space. Everything happened so fast, so loud, so uncontrolled. The front fender is gone, and the entirety of the driver’s seat was crushed in on itself. I stooped down to inspect it further, letting my hands trace every obtuse angle, until the grooves were ingrained into my mind. The chipped paint and shards of metal captured the moment of impact perfectly. A car headlight that seemed a bit too close to ours; Penny’s shriek engulfing me from behind; Baz practically throwing me out the window. A flash. Complete darkness.</p><p>    When I finally came to, I was surrounded by paramedics and police. The blue and red of their lights painting a horrific scene around the car. I craned my head to steal a glance at Penny who was pulled out through the window. Baz was slumped over the steering wheel, completely limp. I had no voice, or maybe no air, but I begged and pleaded with anyone who came near me to attend to Baz first. I flailed and fought, but I must’ve given up (or my body gave out) because the rest of the encounter became black nothingness.</p><p>    It wasn’t until I was crying at Baz’s bedside that I fully grasped what had happened. A drunk driver lost control of their vehicle and decided ours was the best way to stop it. </p><p>    Penny and I were mostly okay, albeit a bit shaken. She tried to convince me Baz would be okay. That he’d wake up soon enough. That his injuries weren’t that bad. That the piece of steering wheel still in his lungs would disappear.</p><p>    I hadn’t said a word to her that night. We share a tiny apartment and I <em> still </em> haven’t spoken to her. What could I even say? What could she say to me?</p><p>    The accident is all anyone wants to ask me about. The news, the papers, my coworkers, Ebb, even Shepard. They all want to know about Baz. I don’t want to think about it, I don’t want to see people. But I can’t stay in my room; Penny’s barely left the sofa, and when she does, it’s only to make herself a cup of coffee.</p><p>    Despite only getting some bruises and scrapes, she’s shaken to the absolute core. Her face is hollow and her clothes are starting to consume her. I can tell she isn’t eating or sleeping because neither am I. We spend our nights staring at the TV, hoping they’ll let Baz rest, but day after day, the cameras are plastering on him.</p><p>    I want to wake up from this nightmare. That’s all it is, right? A bad dream that I can wake up from. I just need to shock myself enough to bolt upright in bed. Nestle myself back into Baz’s arms as he sleepily grumbles about my overactive imagination. He’d kiss my forehead and we’d drift back into unconsciousness. By the morning, he’d tease me about it over breakfast with Penny.</p><p>    I stopped hoping when the papers released an obituary.</p><p>
  <b>Penny</b>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <em>‘Tyrannus Basilton “Baz” Grimm Pitch, Vocalist and Lead Guitarist Dies at Age 25</em> </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="u"> <em>His life was cut tragically short, but he continues to capture the attention of an adoring audience through his music. A star as bright as him can’t be extinguished.’</em> </span>
</p><p>    I clench the newspaper in my shaking hands, my breath becoming ragged and uneven. A measly four lines of text could <em> never </em> commemorate someone, let alone someone as wonderful as Basil. It’s in the trash before I can shred it into bits (Simon would have a fit if I made a mess).</p><p>    I’m seated at the kitchen table, eating the first meal I’ve had in almost three days. The food is unappealing and it hurts to swallow, but I have to take care of myself, if only to make sure Simon is okay. The accident left us worse for wear, but I’ll be damned if we meet Basil anytime soon. Had it not been for his quick thinking, we all might be playing a sold out show in heaven right now. Simon doesn’t see it that way, though. I try to tell him it’s the survivor’s guilt talking, but he refuses to accept it.</p><p>    <em> ‘It should’ve been </em> <b> <em>me</em> </b> <em> , Penny!’ </em></p><p>    At least he’s speaking to me again, which I take as a win as best I can. That voracious appetite is gone, but I can get him to power through a granola bar every couple of hours. Our manager isn’t happy that we disbanded, but there wasn’t much else <em> to </em> do. Simon won’t even look at his bass, let alone pick it up. The band doesn’t matter anymore (I doubt it ever has), we made that abundantly clear when Basil fell into a coma. The record label can offer us whatever they want, a new lead, a full rebrand, millions in contracts, a penthouse. Nothing will bring Basil back to us, and it certainly won’t bring us back to the stage.</p><p>    Life has been largely the same since the funeral, though I notice Simon has made <em> some </em> effort to live on. He’s worked a bit at the law firm as a secretary, which has helped him stay busy for most of the day. I’ve been picking up hours at the bookstore again, however random they might be. We still eat in silence when we can muster up the courage to have a meal. I even visit Shepard at the arcade from time to time, if only to occupy my mind on those sleepless nights. Nothing feels right without Basil there, but I know he would want us to keep going, to live the life that was so brutally ripped from him.</p><p>    So we keep living our lives, however disjointed and broken they seem right now. For him.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Never Open Up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>When you take too much melatonin you tend to have some pretty fucked up dreams</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Another chapter whoop whoop enjoy</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Baz</b>
  
</p><p>
  
  <span>The music pounded against my skull, and the tighter I gripped my sheets, the louder it seemed to grow. It had been three, four, </span>
  <em>
    <span>five</span>
  </em>
  <span> hours since the party next door reached its climax, yet the people dragged it out far longer than I ever thought possible. Between the flashing lights and absolutely blood-curdling cheers, I couldn’t decide if sleeping was even worth it; going into the studio tomorrow morning would be a waste, but the contract clearly states a </span>
  <em>
    <span>minimum</span>
  </em>
  <span> of ten studio hours a week.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I let out a big sigh and rolled onto my back. A thick layer of sweat coated my palm when I dragged it over my forehead. The sheets were equally soaked, sticking to every inch of exposed skin. I thought ten milligrams of melatonin might put me out instantly, but I’d taken fifteen more and unconsciousness was still out of my reach. Every time I tried to fall into a dream, I was forced back into lucidity by another kick drum.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I threw my legs over the side of the bed, head buried in my hands as I slipped on a pair of jeans. The only way to stop this nonsense was to slay it with my own two hands. A sweater thrown crudely over my shoulders and a pair of loafers on my bare feet, I was ill-prepared for the task at hand.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I threw one last look into my apartment, noticing a new chip in the paint near my hand. Something for the landlord to deal with later.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The cool air hit my blistering cheeks, washing over me in waves as I stumbled along the grass. Somehow the music was more muffled from outside, barely registering above a low roar (maybe it just seemed louder while I was half-asleep). I banged on the door, intentionally being as rough as possible. A few shrieks sent a shiver through my body, but were quickly followed by a round of giggles. I huffed and tried the doorbell.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Swinging open, I expected someone to greet me, but instead, a flood of light and techno music drowned me. In an instant, I felt a dozen hands tugging at my sweater, dragging me into the thrall. I thrashed and resisted, but the more I struggled, the further I was dragged. Soon enough, I was surrounded on all sides by red hot bodies, all bouncing in time to the deafening music. Any breath I had was forced out of my chest and into the sea of howling party-goers.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I shut my eyes tightly, wishing desperately that I could close them tighter. Parties weren’t anything I couldn’t handle, but after a restless night of borderline fever-dreams and waking night terrors, the sensory overload crashed over my entire being.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>A hand pulled at mine, leading me into a (miraculously) empty hall. I took a deep breath, letting my lungs fill with shaky breaths as I collapsed against the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“You alright?” A calm voice floated through my mind, like he was creeping through my thoughts. I glanced up at the man; dressed in a pale grey suit and sporting an uncanny grin. He seemed over dressed for the occasion at hand, but who was I to judge another man’s wardrobe? </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yes, I am,” I said bluntly, righting myself in the process.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Not one for social events, I take it?” He leaned against the wall, throwing me a quizzical look.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I scoffed, a series of packed stadiums running across my memory. “Well, no, quite the opposite,” I replied coolly. “I’ve just had a restless night is all.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>He laughed at that, covering a shy smile with the back of his hand. Though, his eyes held all the delight he was trying to hide.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Work in the morning?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Something like that,” there was no hesitation to be found, though, around this stranger, I felt it unnecessary. I don’t think he’d figured out who I was yet. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“You might as well call off; I doubt you’ll be leaving any time soon,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s a bit late to rest tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I quirked an eyebrow at him, feeling my lip curl into a frown.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Catching a few hours is better than none, and I’d appreciate every last one.” There was some hostility, though it was intentional.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>He practically snorted, much more open than his previous chuckle.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Sure, if that’s what you believe, Basil.” He stood up straight, moving away from the wall before adjusting his suit. Moving towards me, he put a hand on my shoulder, “Have some fun while you’re here, or rather,” he stood on tiptoe, a frigid whisper blowing over my ear, “While you still can.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>A few footsteps behind me signaled his exit. When I turned to face him again, I found myself alone in the hall, which had begun to fill with music.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Penny</b>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I was combing through the shelves like I had been for the last few months, letting the tedium of daily work tastes consume every inch of my mind. Somewhere between the pages of these fictional lives I’d find inspiration to move on with my own, very real, very fragmented existence. Maybe if I looked hard enough I’d find my own knight on horseback, or be drafted into a confusing space war. Christ, I’d take a highly categorized dystopian city if it meant never having to work at a bookstore again.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Ma’am,” a voice called over my shoulder. Just what I needed: a customer.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I turned to them, giving the best retail smile I could muster. A tall man with a very kind face returned the favor, though his was much more sincere than I felt comfortable with. There was an air of friendliness to him that was misplaced in the dreary corridors of the philosophy section. Still, I felt compelled to help him, if out of politeness or other force.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Yes? Can I help you with something, sir?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>An already enchanting grin grew, sliding two dimples into his cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> Penelope Bunce, by chance?” His tone was polite, almost bashful. Eyes cast to the floor, he tucked a lock of silky hair behind his ear. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Oh great. A fan. I tried to remain cheerful, even if it made every nerve stand on end. The celebrity of being in a band was fine but it soon became obnoxious when it seeped into my work life. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Whatever could you mean?” I hoped acting dumb would deter him from pressing further, it usually does.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Your band, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>View Masters</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’re the percussionist, if I’m not mistaken,” he said earnestly, almost as if he was begging for it to be true. Shit.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I hadn’t notice how close he’d gotten, how much more of my vision he’d occupied until there was nothing but his pale grey suit all around me.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Backing myself against the bookshelves, I tried to put what little distance I could between us.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Sir, I’m sorry, but we disbanded a while ago,” my tongue stung with the very thought of telling that creep why we weren't together. The acid of Basil’s death burned new synapses, coating each thought with anguish.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Oh, I know,” he said cheerfully, </span>
  <em>
    <span>excitedly</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I offer my sincerest condolences for the loss of your friend.” With every word, he inched closer, one of his pale hands practically gripping the books behind my head.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I didn’t like the look of this guy before, but now that I was caged like some alley cat, I was two centimeters from crushing his skull. Slipping out under his arm, I shimmied out of the aisle. A look of confusion broke his smile, but he recovered quickly and shot another grin my way. What </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> sugary sweet soured with every step he took towards me.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Today, of all days, they left </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> to lock up.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Ms. Bunce, let’s be rational people,” he calmly backed me towards the counter, hands clasped over his midsection. I tried to put the counter between us, but found it mostly useless as he leaned over it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to Basil is tragic, that I won’t deny, but all tragedies have a bit of hope.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>More than anything, his words made my blood boil. He was just a crazed fan; he didn’t know Basil, he didn’t know how hard we fought to save him. He wasn’t in that car when the paramedics cut a windshield wiper out of his throat. I reached under the counter for a box cutter, steadying myself in case he decided to take the final leap over. When I thought he might, a speckled hand clasped his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Sorry, but we’re closed,” Simon said firmly, his eyes carving the man’s face from ear to ear.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Ah, Mr. Snow!” He barely missed a beat, turning fully to meet Simon’s intense glare with a warm smile. “How convenient to have you both here!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Simon’s eyes flitted over to me, asking what to do next. I shrugged, genuinely unsure. He kept a hand on the man, jutting out his jaw as he sized him up.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“What’s going on here?” He asked, coolly, cautiously.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I have an offer to make to-“</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“How many times do we have to say no to you people!” Simon boomed, his voice shaking the shelves nearby. “We’re done! Over! Get that through your thick skull!” He gripped the man’s lapels, nearly lifting him out of his suit.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The man seemed mostly unfazed, his smile straining as he patted Simon’s knuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“That kind of fiery attitude is quite charming, I must say,” he said, a bit too flirty given the position he was in. “You are quite the man, Mr. Snow.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Simon nearly burst into flames at the comment, his face contorting into that of a provoked bear.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“You’ve got ten seconds to explain yourself before your fucking guts are on the counter,” Simon growled, bringing his face closer to the man’s.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Threats are rather unbecoming a rockstar, Mr. Snow,” he seemed determined to die at Simon’s hands. “Mr. Snow, do you know who I am?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“No, you have three seconds left.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I work for a laboratory, and we specialize in a very…</span>
  <em>
    <span> unorthodox </span>
  </em>
  <span>field of medicine.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Simon softened, however, there were still flames behind his eyes. “And what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> does that have to do with Penny and me?”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>With another unsettling grin, his face grew brighter.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Not just you and Ms. Bunce, but Mr. Pitch as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>
  
  <span>I threw him against the counter. No one is allowed to talk about Baz anymore. He only exists in my dreams now, not the mouth of some conman in a well-fitted suit.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Whatever the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’re selling, we. </span>
  <b>Don’t. Want. It.</b>
  <span> Get that through your thick, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking skull.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>His eyes never left mine, never blinking. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Mr. Snow, I’m not selling anything, and I’m not here to buy anything, either.” His smile turned coy, like he was about to show me some magic trick. “Hate me all you like, I understand, but I am simply the messenger when all is said and done.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Letting him go, I tossed the word around in my mind. Messenger? For what exactly? In the time it took for me to think, the man had eased himself on to the counter, legs crossed and looking quite comfy.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“I’m not the best at delivering though, funnily enough,” he said through another grin, the most genuine one I’d seen all day. “Your friend, Mr. Pitch, he’s in our facility undergoing a procedure.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Penny nearly leapt out of her skin at the comment, tugging at his sleeve from behind.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Excuse me?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” She sputtered, something I’ve never witnessed. “I’m sorry, but Basil, he’s been-he’s-he’s,” the words caught in her throat as she bit back the emotions.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Dead for six months? Yes, I am fully aware,” he replied. “Something like that is of no concern, well, it won’t be in a few days.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Penny’s eyes jumped between me and the man, her eyebrows knit tightly and her jaw hanging loose. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“What is </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> supposed to mean?” She was bordering on exasperated, her eyes bulging behind her thick glasses. “You can’t bring back the dead!”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The man laughed again, covering his mouth as he chuckled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ms. Bunce, with science, just about anything is possible these days. And with a bit of funding from the Grimm-Pitch estate, our task is easier than ever.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>Penny went through the five stages of grief in a heartbeat. Her expression settled on horror as she held on to the counter’s edge. It was my turn to rip his attention away.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“The Grimm-Pitch estate did </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” I said.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>He threw a disdainful look at my hand, shrugging it away in favor of a neutral smile. “By authorization of a Malcom Grimm-Pitch, your friend Basil was exhumed and is en route to our laboratory. His operations begin tomorrow morning.” His expression flipped to something dark. Consuming and ice cold in the warmth of the setting sun. “It was by the request of Fiona Pitch that I inform you of the proceedings,” his tone played with seriousness, but it was soaked in raw honey. “She would greatly appreciate it if you would stop by our office tonight for a little chat.”</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>My head spun faster with every passing second. This had to be another nightmare. Another bad dream that I’d wake up from. Baz was dead. I saw them put him in the ground. Under a layer of concrete. Under six feet of dirt and a patch of turf. He wasn’t coming back. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> come back. He was missing organs, flesh, his esophagus. His soul.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>The man hopped off of the counter, straightening himself out before turning to face Penny and me.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>“Pardon my haste, but the car has been waiting an </span>
  <em>
    <span>awfully</span>
  </em>
  <span> long time now,” he said it so casually, I thought I might jolt awake any moment now. “Shall we go?”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Y’all really thought this was a one shot? <br/>You fools. I’ve already daydreamed fifteen chapters of this angsty piece of shit<br/>Also yes I finally listened to “you’re at the party” so that’s why I threw that shit in<br/>Go listen to it, it’s literally all I’ve heard for three days straight (it fucks hard)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Neil cicierega owns my soul and tbh I don’t even care anymore. Go listen to Spirit Phone it fucks for no goddamn reason</p></blockquote></div></div>
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